Scruts have passed into the proverbial philosophy of the district.
"Him's a pudden with more scruts than raisins to 'm" is a criticism
not infrequently heard. It implies respect, even admiration. Of Emily
Wrackgarth herself people often said, in reference to her likeness to
her father, "Her's a scrut o' th' owd basin."
Jos had emptied out from his pocket on to the table a good three dozen
of scruts. Emily laid aside her spoon, rubbed the palms of her hands
on the bib of her apron, and proceeded to finger these scruts with the
air of a connoisseur, rejecting one after another. The pudding was
a small one, designed merely for herself and Jos, with remainder to
"the girl"; so that it could hardly accommodate more than two or three
scruts. Emily knew well that one scrut is as good as another. Yet she
did not want her brother to feel that anything selected by him would
necessarily pass muster with her. For his benefit she ostentatiously
wrinkled her nose.
"By the by," said Jos, "you remember Albert Grapp? I've asked him to
step over from Hanbridge and help eat our snack on Christmas Day."
Emily gave Jos one of her looks. "You've asked that Mr. Grapp?"
"No objection, I hope? He's not a bad sort. And he's considered a bit
of a ladies' man, you know.
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